Who Will Have Mercy on Your Soul?
by The Emcee
Summary: Britain dies suddenly and America, consumed by his grief, searches for anyway to bring him back. Unfortunately, Russia is the only one who can help him and the end result isn't what America had been expecting. Two-shot. UkUs. RusAme.
1. Part I

Title: Who Will Have Mercy on Your Soul?

Author: The Emcee

Summary: Britain dies suddenly and America, consumed by his grief, searches for anyway to bring him back. Unfortunately, Russia is the only one who can help him and the end result isn't what America had been expecting.

Pairings: Uk/Us, RusAme

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or the fandom.

A/N: This just came to me one night and, naturally, I HAD to write it. Let me know what you think. R&R. Enjoy!

**~…~**

**Who Will Have Mercy on Your Soul?**

**~…~**

**Part I**

**~...~**

America had no idea what was happening. Everything had been just fine. One minute, he was sitting beside Britain during the world meeting and the next, the older nation was coughing. At first, nothing seemed amiss, but then, his coughs got worse and worse and before America even knew it, Britain was vomiting blood on himself, the table, and his files.

Germany shouted for someone to get some help while the other nations quickly cleared the room. Some of them were talking loudly, others, the more sensitive nations, were crying, and other just remained in a shocked silence as they left. America was in shock as he watched his former caretaker bleed his life's blood all over himself as he coughed and hunched over his chair. And then, Germany's voice broke through.

"America! Get him down on the floor!" Germany barked at him.

America scrambled out of his chair and, as gently as he could, eased Britain out of his chair. His body shook violently with his coughs and his green eyes were bright with red tears that tumbled down his too pale cheeks. As America placed Britain's head in his lap in an attempt to make him comfortable, he watched completely helpless as blood poured from Britain's mouth, his nose, his ears…every orifice on his head. But his eyes, those green eyes that always shown brighter than any emerald, looked strong and fierce despite the fact that Britain was dying in his arms.

"Bri-Britain?" America asked, his voice sounding small and frail. He didn't even realize he was crying. "Britain…are...are you o-o-okay, dude?"

It was a stupid question. He knew that. But America just didn't know what to do. All of the nations knew that once you started coughing up your life's blood, it was all over. That was how nations died – by bleeding their life's blood out. What caused it was unknown. Sometimes, the caused was obvious, like civil far or famine – that was how China died years ago, after all. But other times, it was just so sudden, so unexpected, and there was no cause. The nation just…died.

And that was what was happening right now. Britain was just…dying.

"A-America," Britain said, his voice sounding so weak and his face looking so pale. America choked back a sob and he smoothed Britain's messy blonde hair back from his forehead. He was so cold! It made America's hand shake.

"It's o-okay, Britain. If you can't talk," America said through his tears. "You…you need to save your strength."

"America," Britain said, his voice sounding strong and sure even through his blood-soaked coughs. "I'm going to die."

Everything around the two of them faded away. It was just Britain and America and Britain was dying. Within minutes, he would be dead. Dead. The finality to it hit America like a ton of bricks.

Suddenly, he felt a hand cup his cheek weakly. Blinking, America realized that Britain was cupping his face, his thumb wiping away his tears every so often. Looking down at his former caretaker dying in his arms, America saw overwhelming love in those familiar green eyes and it broke his heart.

"I'm going to die, America," Britain repeated, "but…I don't want you to be sad."

"How…how can I not be sad?" America all but sobbed. What Britain was asking was impossible. He ought to know that. "You're all I've ever known. You're the…you're the one only I…" He choked on his words and couldn't continue. Telling the person you love the depth of your feelings wasn't something you did as they were dying in your arms. But it seemed that Britain understood him regardless.

"I know, love. My feelings are the same," Britain said. "But…but you can't s-stop it. You…you can't change the past…" He broke off then and coughed, the sound wet and heavy in his throat. When he was finished, he could barely breathe, but he had enough breath to finish what he was saying.

"Don't cling to the past, Alfred," Britain told him, using his human name. "You…you are so…so s-s-strong. You will….you will…live…."

"Britain," America said brokenly.

Britain felt so heavy and cold in his arms. His green eyes closed and he breathed a few times, his breaths shallow. And then his body still completely and the island nation died.

**~…~**

It had been six months since Britain had died in his arms and America was no longer the nation he used to be, the man he used to be.

Ever since Britain died, America had drowned in the grief and the guilt over his former caretaker's death. He was so sure, so positive, that he could have done something that might have saved Britain's life. His mind wracked through all of the possibilities, but there were just so many of them that it was damn near impossible for him to list them all.

He barely ate. He barely slept. America left his job without warning, without telling his boss where he was going or what he was doing. His boss knew that Britain's death hit him hard, but America wondered if he realized by now just how hard. But America just couldn't do it anymore; he just couldn't.

America realized now that he _needed_ Britain in his life. Before the Revolution, Britain had been his caretaker, his father, his brother, his…his lover. His first everything, and his only one. There was no other and there never would be. Even the first few years after their nasty break up, America knew that. Britain was his one and only; he just didn't know how to tell him. And now, it was too late.

But…but what if Britain could be brought back? America knew that Britain delved into black magic and that his was the strongest in the world. Although Britain was gone, there were other libraries in the world that held documents about Britain and his magic. America thought that one of them was bound to tell him how to bring the dead back to life.

None of them did.

Every book and scroll he read through stated that necromancy was impossible and that even black magic couldn't accomplish such a thing. So he'd have to find another way. And it eventually came to him: if America couldn't bring Britain back from the dead, then he'd have to go back in time and change whatever it was that caused his death and prevent it from ever happening. However, he had no idea how to do that and none of the books or scrolls gave him any advice on the matter. It soon became apparent that America would have to seek help. And now that Britain was gone, there was only one nation who had the power to help him. Only one would know what America would have to do to go back in time and save his beloved Britain.

Russia.

All of the nations knew that Russia's magic was the strongest in the world now that Britain was gone. He was the strongest nation now period, since America had become consumed with finding a way to bring Britain back and had practically turned his back on his own people and the world. It was a long shot, America knew, but he had to ask Russia to help and Russia would just have to help him. He _had_ to. If he refused, America would make him no matter what it took or what price he'd have to pay.

So, it was with a heavy heart full of grief and guilt and love and a mind full of determination that America went to Russia's house. He rang the bell, unsure of what would happen once the door was answered but knowing that he wasn't going to back down until he got his way.

Minutes passed and America wondered if Russia had heard him when the door opened. Standing in the door way, looking proud and strong, was Russia. Any other nation would be trembling before him, but not America. Never America. America had nothing to lose now, so why bother feeling anything but grief and pain?

"Ah. I was wondering when I would be seeing you, Amerika," Russia said as he stepped aside and let America into his home. It was silent and cold, but America didn't care.

"You knew I'd be coming?" America asked as Russia closed the door and turned to him.

"Da. It was inevitable," Russia replied. "I know you, Amerika. We are…similar in many ways. So…that being said," Russia continued as he pushed himself away from the closed door and walked so that he stood in front of America, "why should I help you?"

"I could give you a list of reasons. I could bribe you. I could threaten you. But I'm just going to ask you because I have nothing left and I can't live without him," America told him, getting straight to the point. "_Please_, Ivan. Please…do this for me."

Using Russia's human name must have struck a chord. America had never, not even once, used his human name before. But he was using it now because he wanted the older nation to know just how serious he was and just what level he'd stoop to to get him to help. Gazing into those violet eyes, America could see the surprise and the sadness within them, but that was all he could see. Anything else Russia thought or felt was unknown to him.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Russia sighed.

"Very well, Amerika," he said. "I will help you." Russia walked past America. "Follow me."

**~…~**

America was lying on a stone slab. It was cold beneath him despite his many layers and it pulsated with every beat of his heart. He probably should have been concerned or frightened, but he wasn't. All he was was determined to change things. He would get Britain back. He would!

"I will watch over your body. The spell I will cast will remove your soul from your body and transport you through time to your body of that period. Whatever you say or do will be up to the consciousness that exists in the here and now," Russia explained to him as he sat down on the floor with an old, leather bound book in his lap. "When you are brought back after a certain period of time, I will repeat the process and you will go back in time to try and save your lost Britain."

"Is there a limit to how many times you can do this?" America asked.

"Are you questioning my endurance or the spell?" Russia asked and America could hear the slightly defensive tone in the older nation's voice.

"The spell," America answered.

"Then I shall answer your question. No, there is not. Are there any other questions you may have?" Russia said.

"No. I'm all set," America said.

"Very well. I will begin the spell," Russia replied.

Soon, the room, a sort of basement room that had been sectioned off and sealed tightly and separately from the actual basement of the house, was filled with Russia's voice chanting the words of the spell low and soft. America listened to the sound of his voice as he did so. It was hypnotic and strangely soothing.

How long it took until the spell actually kicked in, America didn't know. Nor did he care, really. But it wasn't a sudden progression. It was as though his soul or whatever was suddenly thrust out of his body. No, it was more along the lines that America slowly realized that he was no longer in his body. Instead, his spirit was rising above his body, above the dark room, above Russia's house even. His body drift upward slowly while he still somehow heard and listened to Russia's hypnotic voice.

A soft white light appeared above him and before America knew it, he was swallowed by it.

**~…~**

Blinking, America woke up and realized two things immediately. One, he was no longer in the small basement-type room that wasn't really the basement of Russia's house anymore. Instead, he was in another room, his room, the one he had when he was still little and living with Britain in the large house they both shared before Britain had to go away. Two, America was small. Not a baby like he was when Britain first found him, but a child of about six years old physically. He knew that he was actually six years old; that was just how big his body was.

Yawning, America sat up rubbed his fists over his sleep crusted eyes. He remembered where he was, but not exactly when. What he did know was that when he was younger, America gave Britain a hard time, a very hard time, and often disobeyed his orders or grew stubborn and cranky when he was forced to do something. Well, that wasn't going to happen this time. Even though he was a free spirit at heart, if it meant that Britain would be alive in the present where his actual body was, then America would grin and bear whatever he had to.

"Ah, you're awake," Britain said as he entered America's bedroom, a smile on his face. "It's time to get you changed out of your night clothes, America. Breakfast will soon be ready."

"Breakfast?" America asked, his voice sounding so odd and yet so familiar. It had been so very long since he had seen a kid that he forgot what he sounded like back then. And just the thought of food after not having eaten for so long made his stomach grumble and gurgle in anticipation.

"Yes, sleepy head. Breakfast," Britain chuckled as he pulled out some clothes for him. "And then I must go in to town today to see my boss. You'll have to come along and you must be on your best behavior, yeah? I want to give my boss a good impression of you. If you behave, I'll let you have extra dessert tonight for supper."

"Okay!" America said eagerly even though he remembered this meeting now.

As a little kid, when he first met Britain's boss, he thought he was a stuff old fart who hated kids. Well, he did hate kids and he was a stuff old fart, but that still didn't excuse America squirting ink at him and kicking one of the walls down. Also, stomping around the office and creating holes in the floor boards hadn't been his best idea. Britain had been so angry at him that America thought he'd hate him forever for it. And Britain's boss made things difficult for America because of it, which resulted in a lot of tension between both nations.

This time, though, would be different. America would be well behaved and he would do whatever Britain asked of him.

After getting dressed and eating breakfast, America sat beside Britain quietly as they made their way to Britain's boss' office. Just seeing Britain alive and well and strong, just sitting beside him, was enough to help ease some of the grief America had been feeling. Although he knew that it wasn't _really_ Britain – Britain was dead after all – it was still Britain, a past Britain, and that was good enough for him.

"You're awfully quiet today, America. And well behaved. I must say, I've never seen you like this," Britain commented, smiling down at him.

"Just thinking," America said and he shifted in his seat.

"What about, love?" Britain asked.

"Stuff," America replied.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I'm here for you if you want to talk," Britain told him after a few minutes. "I'll always be here."

America looked up at him. Britain's green eyes were full of sincerity and love and his expression was so kind that it almost broke the younger nation's heart. He suddenly felt an overwhelming regret for having done so many terrible things to his caretaker over the many years. How was he ever going to make up for them all?

"I love you!" America blurted out brilliantly. He then blushed brightly and looked away. Then Britain's hand was underneath his chin, lifting it up and forcing America to look at him.

"I love you as well, America. Never forget that. Never doubt that. All right?" Britain said.

"Okay," said America with a small nod. Britain smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Brilliant. Here we are. Remember to behave yourself," Britain said as they pulled to a stop at the building Britain's boss was using on his visit to America.

The meeting went smoothly and America kept as still as possible despite the fact that Britain's boss was insulting him and his people and making not so subtle hints about what was wrong with this or that. By the end of the meeting America was almost afraid that he'd never be able to pull this off.

And then he thought about Britain dying in his arms and he pushed those thoughts out of his mind.

**~…~**

The second time America leapt through time and entered his past body, it was when Britain was leaving. America was physically ten or eleven, maybe twelve, and he was clinging to Britain's coat tails, begging him with tears streaming down his face not to go.

"I won't be gone for long, America, I promise. I'll be back before you know it," Britain reassured him.

"But's that's what you said the last time and you were gone for a year!" America of the past protested. And then, America entered his body and he forced himself to quell his emotions.

He let go of Britain's coat tails and took a deep breath, looking down at the rug on the floor. Obviously, he had been brought to this moment in time for a reason and he couldn't mess this up. America sighed inwardly and forced himself not to tackle Britain to the floor and force him to stay.

"You're right. I'm sorry, Britain," America said, feeling small. "You have more important things to do, so it's okay."

"America," Britain said softly and then crouched down to meet his gaze. "You are the most important thing in my life. But there are other things I must see to. And I promise that I won't take a year to return to you."

"You promise?" America asked, feeling childish for even asking, for hoping for such a thing even though his consciousness was of a much older nation than what his body showed.

"I give you my word," Britain vowed, his green eyes meeting America's blue ones. "i will return to you before you know it, America. Don't fret."

He pressed a kiss to America's forehead, stood up, straightened his jacket out and, like he had done so many, many times before, Britain walked out of his life.

**~...~**

With a sudden rush, America was back in his own body. Gasping, he looked around and saw Russia sitting in the same spot with his book still in his lap.

"How...how long...?" America asked. "Did it...work?"

His eyes met Russia's violet ones and the sadness and resignation he saw within them told America everything he needed to know.

"Send me back, Russia," America said.

He heard Russia sigh and the chanting began.

**~...~**

America remembered this day. How could he ever forget it? It was burned forever into his mind, his heart, and his very soul. This day...this one day...stood out above and beyond all of the rest.

The rain had soaked through his clothes and the cold wetness had absorbed into his bones, into the very fiber of his being. On this day, the first time it happened and before America made the time leap, America had felt so sure, so confident and strong. With his army behind him and his freedom clearly on the horizon, all he had left to do was beat Britain. That would be easy. That _had_ been easy.

But now, America wasn't sure or confident or strong. Now, he knew better. Now, he understood. This wasn't about his freedom. This wasn't about him being his own nation recognized by the world. This was about Britain, about keeping Britain alive in America's present. Britain's bloody, dead body passed before his very eyes and America felt his heart break all over again. He wouldn't let it happen. He _couldn't_ let it happen. Britain meant too much to him. Not even his freedom was more important to him now.

"Britain..." America began, his eyes filled with a haunting sadness that was soul deep. He met Britain's green ones and he saw anger and hatred mixing with pain and hurt. Pain and hurt he had caused.

"Britain, I...I'm sorry," America said. He could hear his men gasping behind him, some shouting while others remained in silent shock. "I...I was wrong, Britain. I hurt you and caused you unimaginable pain and...and I'm sorry."

Swallowing his pride and saying that was hard for America. He felt part of himself die as he did so. While he was trying his best to make things work in the past so that Britain would live in the future, he was also losing parts of himself in the process and he knew that. But wasn't that a small price to pay in comparison? Wasn't Britain's life more important than his own? The answer was obvious and came to America without hesitation or doubt: yes. Yes, Britain's life was more important than America's and that was what mattered in the end.

"You're sorry? You're sorry!" Britain shouted as he glared at America. He tried his best not to flinch but he wasn't sure how well he did. "I suppose you'd return to me if I asked it, eh?"

America swallowed thickly and met Britain's gaze. When he spoke, he spoke with a raw honesty that struck him to the core even as it also killed a part of America inside. "Yes."

He watched as Britain scrutinized him, his green eyes still glaring at him, still holding anger and hatred. His frown was deep and his brow was furrowed. In his red uniform, gripping his musket like a lifeline, Britain looked completely in control and powerful, like a god come to Earth. Why had America never noticed how strong he was or how awe-inspiring he could be? Why did he only now appreciate Britain's might and power when he knew that he was gone? How could he have been so foolish?

"Well, I don't want you back!" Britain finally yelled at him, his anger and hatred consuming him. "Not not; not ever!" With that, he charged at America, bayonet aimed directly at his heart.

America could have brought his musket up in an attempt to defend himself. He had done so in the past. But he didn't; he wouldn't defend himself from this, not this time. After everything he had said and done to Britain, he deserved this. And if it meant saving Britain in the future, he'd do it. He'd do whatever it took to bring Britain back.

The pain he felt when the bayonet pierced his flesh just above his heart was excruciating, but America took it. He staggered back, gasping and pressing a hand to the fresh wound. Blood poured from it, hot and sticky, and stained his blue uniform red.

Looking up, he saw the horrified look on Britain's face. America watched as tears tumbled from those green eyes. He lifted a hand to reach out to comfort him, but Britain stepped back away from him and shook his head.

"What...what have I done?" Britain asked.

"It's okay, Britain," America reassured him, smiling through the pain. "I'm alright."

"No! It's not okay!" Britain shouted. Without another word, he turned from America and ran, leaving him bleeding and broken with his army in shock.

**~...~**

"Hey, Britain," America approached the older nation. This was his seventh leap through time and he was in the conference room the Allies used during World War II. Actually, it was World War II and their meeting had ended about an hour ago.

"What do you want, America?" Britain snapped. America's heart sank at his tone of voice.

Over the past couple of leaps, America had noticed that Britain's tone towards him had been cold and distant, like he thought America was a mere cockroach he had to put up. And now that they were working together during the War, it was even more noticeable. Each time Britain answered him or talked to him, it was like a paper cut, swift, fierce, and far more painful than a normal cut.

"I...I just..." America stumbled over his words. How could he put his feelings into words?

He had experienced Britain's hatred and loathing towards him the past couple of times he had returned to different moments in their joined past. And America knew that it was because the older nation was trying to hide his own pain and heart break. So how could America tell him how very sorry he was for hurting him so much? How could he wear his heart on his sleeve for the man he loved and held most dear when he couldn't even stand to look at him?

"It isn't like you to stutter. Out with it, boy!" Britain barked at him, finally looking at him.

America could feel tears building in his eyes. Britain was here before him, alive and well and strong as ever. He could reach out and touch him, hold him, tell him how much he cared about him. Yet Britain was treating him as though he was lower than dirt. Honestly, America couldn't blame him; it was what he deserved. These feelings he had were what he deserved.

"I...I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry," America said softly. He looked down and felt so damn stupid. Here he was, swallowing his pride, and it still wasn't enough to mend the broken bond between them.

"Sorry for what? Being a prat?" Britain sneered at him.

"I'm sorry for rebeling and for hurting you so much," America replied, sounding as small as he felt. "I know it doesn't mean much and that you probably don't even care and that it won't ever make up for it, but I am. I'm sorry and I meant what I said back then: I'd return to you if you asked it. I'd be yours again, only yours, if it meant..."

He stopped there. America couldn't finish his sentence. How could he tell this Britain that he'd do whatever it took if only it meant that he wouldn't die in the future? Russia didn't tell him any rules to this time traveling stuff and America had been too preoccupied and ignorant to even ask. Now, he wish he had because he desperately wanted to tell Britain about him dying so that, maybe, they could work together to prvent it.

"What's done is done, America," Britain said after what felt like an eternity. When America looked up at him, he saw that Britain looked so old and tired. "We can't go back and change the past. The hurt won't go away."

America's heart sank again and he looked back down.

"However...I...I realize that I had been irrational and cruel to you back then, especially when you did say that you would return to me if only I asked it of you. So...I suppose that I...I accept you apology," Britain said as he looked at America. "Alfred, look at me." America did as he was told.

"Even after all this time, you're still the most important thing in the world to me," Britain said.

"I love you, Arthur," America said softly. He didn't even realize he was crying until Britain was standing before him and wiping away his tears.

"And I love you as well, my dear Alfred," Britain replied.

"Where...where does this leave us?" America asked him, feeling so small and stupid and child-like. But all Britain did was smile at him and pull him into his arms.

"Forward, my dear boy. We move forward together," Britain said. "What happened in our past will only strength us, yeah?"

"Yeah," America said and his tears stopped flowing.

"Now, let's get you back to my place, shall we?" Britain asked. "You look a fright and you're probably hungry."

Feeling lighter than he had been in a long time and hoping that things had finally changed, America nodded and left with Britain. He was certain that now things would be different. Now, Britain wouldn't die. They were together and they could get through anything so long as they were together, right?

Right?

**~...~**

"America! Get him down on the floor now!" Germany yelled at him.

No! No, no, no, no! NO! Not again! This could not be happening again! America had gone back in time! He had changed things, he had done things differently, and yet still Britain was coughing up his life's blood! Still, he was dying!

This couldn't be! Why? Why was this happening? How could this be happening? This wasn't right! It wasn't fair! Things had been changed, things had been different! It was as though all of America's efforts were for not! Britain was still coughing up his blood, he was still dying in his arms.

Tears fell from America's eyes as he held Britain in his lap. They landed on Britain's face and mingled with his life's blood. His green eyes opened and the tears the trickled down his too pale cheeks were red just like his blood.

"Alfred..." Britain sighed. Surprisingly, he smiled and reached up with a blood soaked hand to caress America's cheek.

"Arthur...this can't be happening again," America choked, shaking his head in denial. "You...you can't be dying...n-not again! Not like this!"

"Alfred...don't cry, love," Britain said, his voice sounding so far away and weak. "You're too...beautiful to...cry."

"Arthur, _please_," America all but begged.

"I love...you, Alfred. I have...ever since I...since I laid my...eyes on you," Britain said and then coughed violently, blood coating his hand and dripping down his chin and onto his stained suit. "You were...were always the...b-best of...me."

"Please don't leave me, Arthur," America pleaded through his tears as he held onto his love. "Not again. I...I still have to make things up to you... I...I can't live without you."

"You will live!" Britain said with a strength that surprised America and stunned him. "Live...Alfred, live... Don't...don't cling to...the past. You...you must...live...Alfred."

With one last cough, with one last pant, Britain closed his eyes, fell limp in America's arms, and died once more.

**~...~**

America returned to his body. He heard Russia's chanting stop and his body felt both hot and cold, as though it was made of both fire and ice. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks and he felt stiff and sore when he sat up.

He had failed. Britain was still dead. Russia didn't need to tell him that; America felt it in his very soul. After all of his efforts, after changing things that needed changing, America had still failed and Britain had still died.

Unable to help himself, America brought his legs up to his chest and cried. He cried everything out. All of his anger, all of his pain, all of his sorrow and despair, was creid out with his tears. His body shook and his sobs were loud and obnoxious. Russia was probably irritated at him, but he didn't care. Britain was dead, dead as dreams, and it was all America's fault. Something was wrong with him. There had to be something wrong with him. If there wasn't, then he wouldn't have failed and Britain wouldn't have died again.

Yet he had.

Arms wrapped around his shaking body and America gasped and lifted his head. Russia was holding him tightly in his arms. His body was cooler than America's, but it felt strong and reassuring against his own. And comforting. so very comforting.

As he cried, America felt himself being lifted from the stone slab and onto Russia's lap. Crying like a baby, he buried his face against the scarf Russia always wore and held onto him for dear life. He felt Russia's larger hands rub his back as the sorrow of his soul poured out of him. Eventually, America calmed down and his sobs stopped as his tears slowed. Feeling tired and utterly drained, America pulled back somewhat from Russia and gazed up into his violet eyes.

"Uh, sorry about that, man. I...know it probably annoyed you," America apologized, giving Russia a weak smile that resembled a grimace more than an actual smile.

"Nyet. Sorrow and despair are best handled through tears and weeping. It is only natural, da?" Russia replied, waving his apology away. Then his expression softened slightly. "There was nothing you could have done to prevent his death."

"Did you know that when I first came to you?" America asked, feeling and sounding worn out.

"Da. But it was something that you had to find out yourself," Russia explained to him not unkindly. "It takes about half a century for a nation to die."

"But I thought it could happen suddenly too," America said.

"What I mean is that...a nation usually realizes it is dying about half a century before it happens. That doesn't mean it happens exactly half a century. Sometimes, it is more than that. It is hard to explain," Russia said and his expression told America that he wasn't making any of it up. "It's just...a thought that comes to your mind with such finality that it couldn't be false. A nation knows it's going to die and then, sometimes, they waste away during those fifty years or however long it takes while other times, they just...die suddenly."

"And it happens with every nation?" America asked him.

"Da. All of the nations that have passed on have had this thought. That is how the rest of us know it to be true," Russia answered.

"I didn't know..." America muttered, not sure if he felt angry or not. Truthfully, he was too drained to feel much of anything except tired.

"You are so young still, Amerika. Most of the nations did not want to explain such things to you," Russia said. Then, he added, "And Britain made us all swear not to tell you."

"He knew..." America said, astonished and shocked. Britain had known for years and he had never told America. Hadn't even brought it up. Not once.

"Da, he knew. But he didn't want you to worry or to try and stop the inevitable. He wanted to enjoy the time he had with you, with you being you and not a man obsessed with conquering death," Russia told him gently. America, feeling heavy and weighed down, leaned his head against Russia's shoulder.

"He lied to me," he mumbled.

"He did what he thought was best to protect his loved one," Russia explained. "What would you have done had you been the one to find out you were going to die?"

"I...I wouldn't have wanted him to worry. I would have wanted to enjoy the time I had with him for however long I had," America replied automatically, going with what he felt was right, what he _knew_ in his heart and soul was right.

"Then do not be angry at Britain. Be glad that he gave you as much peace as he could," Russia said.

"Thank you, Ivan," America said. "Thank you for everything you've done. I...I don't know how to repay you." Russia wrapped his arms around America's body once more and held him close. And America let him, absorbing the comfort of the older nation's body.

"It was the least I could do for you," Russia replied.

America remained in Russia's embrace for a little while longer, enjoying what little comfort he was getting from the other while he allowed his mind to go blank. Eventually, he fell into a deep sleep, but he stayed in Russia's lap while the other rocked him gently and sang to him softly. It was the least he could do, after all.


	2. Part II

A/N: So, here's the second part of the story. Sorry it took me a little while; I've been busy working. Regardless, I hope you all like this part! R&R. Enjoy!

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**Who Will Have Mercy on Your Soul?**

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**Part II**

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"You want me to what?" Russia asked Britain.

The older nation was pacing back and forth before him in his office. His body was tense and it seemed as though it would be easy to break with just one touch. Green eyes were narrowed, shining with determination and a bit of fear. With a furrowed brow, Britain turned to him and met his gaze head on. Although he was a supposed 'gentleman' now, there was still a pirate dwelling deep within Britain that would never, ever go away. He thrived and grew during his pirate days; he had made quite a name for himself among the other nations.

Not that that mattered much now.

"America will come to you. He will exhaust all of his other possibilities before he does so, of course. But he will come to you in the end," Britain repeated himself.

"Da, I get that. And you want me to…?" Russia questioned him. He knew what Britain wanted him to do and he knew that Britain knew what Russia wanted him to do. But he had never liked Britain and hearing him ask for his help, all but pleading, was a petty joy he would not deprive himself of.

"I want you to help him," Britain said, his voice strong and tight, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to remain calm. Russia knew that Britain didn't like him either, and yet here they were.

Russia leaned back in his chair and gazed steadily back at the blonde nation, his calm true and absolute and not forced like Britain's. It made him pleasure smile inwardly at the fact that he could get under the older nation's skin after so long.

"And why would I do that?" Russia asked him, his voice light and teasing, hinting at the possibility that he may or may not do what Britain was asking of him.

Britain's green eyes continued to meet his violet ones and something within them changed. Instead of the anger and loathing that was in them just a second ago, there was a strange understanding and acceptance in them. Russia didn't like it. He didn't like when other nations figured something out about him and that was what he felt had happened.

"You'll help America because you loved him. You have for a while now and don't say you don't because I know that you do," Britain answered him. "I've seen it. And let's face it, the Cold War was basically all about you having a pouting fit over him."

Russia almost scowled. Almost. He didn't though because Britain was right. For some reason, ever since Russia had met America, _Alfred_, he'd been drawn to him. America was just like the sun only brighter. He shone brighter than any star or planet and he radiated so much warmth and light that Russia could only be left in awe of him. His happiness and laughter were infectious and drew everyone to him, including Russia. And his innocence was refreshing and pure despite all of the wars he had seen.

Much like Russia, America had been dragged through many wars and had experienced much bloodshed in his time. Yet, unlike Russia, he had not allowed such things to taint and spoil his mind. He still retained his innocence and purity and his belief that good and light would always win over evil and darkness. While they had many differences, Russia also knew that he and America were very much alike in many ways and were compatible on many levels.

But it was a dream for Russia. He knew that America would never be with him. Russia was too cold, too hard, and had allied himself with too much darkness for America to ever want to be with him. This he knew and understood and this is what Britain sought to exploit.

"That may be so, but that doesn't mean I will help _you_ out, Britain," Russia said and stood up. He walked over to the window and gazed out into the dark, starry night.

"I don't expect you to pity me because I'm dying. I don't expect you to change your opinion on me upon my death. All I ask is that you look after Alfred because you're the only one who would be able to do the job," Britain told him. "We've never liked or trusted each other, but I trust that when it comes to Alfred, you'll do whatever you can to protect him."

"You sound very confident over something you do not know for sure," Russia said, sounding casual but feeling just as tense now as Britain did. "How do you know I simply won't use this to my advantage and hurt Fredka?"

"Because you already tired and you couldn't do it. That's what the Cold War was all about, wasn't it?" Britain countered and from his reflection in the window, Russia could see that the shorter blonde already knew he was right.

He was, of course, but that didn't make Russia feel better.

Turning back to face Britain and meet his gaze, Russia replied.

"I will do what you ask of me. When Alfred comes to me seeking guidance on his mission to bring you back from the dead, I will help him," Russia said loud and clear. "But I am not doing this for you; I have no desire to help a dying man. I do this only for Alfred."

The smile that graced Britain's face made Russia wanted to punch him. He knew that America loved Britain; the younger nation had never been all that good at hiding his emotions. And he also knew that Britain knew about America's feelings. Yet once a nation was doomed to die, there was nothing that could be done. At least he wasn't wasting away into nothing like China had done. Britain still looked healthy and fit and ready for battle like he always did. Only Russia and Britain knew the truth.

Britain was going to die and he was going to die soon.

"Thank you, Russia. Knowing that you will watch after Alfred when I'm gone gives me more comfort than words can express," Britain said and straightened himself out. He looked like a man who was ready for anything, who had accepted whatever life had to throw at him even if that was his death.

"Do not thank me. As I have said, I do not do this for you," Russia said, his voice like ice.

"Nonetheless, I appreciate it. Please, be good to Alfred," Britain said. Without another word, he walked out of Russia's office.

Russia stood there, staring at the closed door of his office for some time before he turned back to the window. He allowed his mind to wander and then go blank. All he could do now was gaze at the stars and ponder about how America outshone them all.


End file.
